


at breakneck speed

by Lua



Series: on the edge of nobody's empire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, heavily focused on peter, s5B canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5973982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter, Lydia and Stiles aren't ready to deal with the aftermath of surviving. They are still learning to cope.<br/>Peter is the first one to break.</p><p> </p><p>"If you can't go back, where the hell do you go?"<br/>Family Friend - The Vaccines</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

They took the Interstate 5 and didn’t look back. There were no words to share, no plan to be discussed. They all knew it was a ridiculous idea. There wasn’t much to be left behind, there was no home to return to, the grief would follow them to the end of the world and yet they wouldn’t dare admit they were walking away.

Peter snorted, watching the road with his arms crossed, and it got him a side glance from Stiles. This was more than just leaving Beacon Hills.

This was…

This was following the Five whilst pretending that they weren’t running away. Pretending they weren’t afraid of going back, weren’t afraid of what they could find there, weren’t afraid of what they could do, weren’t afraid of themselves, afraid for themselves and how selfish of them it all was! They were scared. The absurdity of their denial was too big to be discussed. But they all knew.

They knew it was an absurd attempt.

The silence was unnerving. Peter rubbed the back of his neck; Sacramento was two hours behind them. Stiles muttered something that sounded like an excuse about filling the tank up before driving them into the city but they drove across the place anyway.

Peter looked at Lydia through the rear mirror and she seemed busy with her phone. She didn’t mind the delay at all. Peter tongued his fangs, keeping his mouth carefully shut. The city itself seemed to upset Lydia and it made the boy grow quieter and more still. The “boy”- Peter felt an urge to roll his eyes at himself. After all that transpired in Beacon Hills, it was absurd to keep thinking of Stiles as a scared child relying on sarcastic bravado, worried the big bad wolf would catch him, too. How ridiculous to still think of Stiles as only the scared teen willing to lie about anything, even in the face of death. Peter liked that about him; that unwillingness to concede a full victory to anyone else but himself.

Stiles turned on the radio; it was already set to KROQ. They’ve been driving for quite some time; they still didn’t want to talk. Peter could feel his claws prickling on the back of his neck.

His control was slipping.

He didn’t feel right on his skin.

It as a car drive, it was a car drive it was a car drive and it as fine. Sacramento was two hours behind, and that wasn’t such a long time but they drove by the city and didn’t stop. It was _fine_.

“Stiles,” Lydia said from the backseat and it was a clear and annoyed demand.

Peter didn’t move; he didn’t look at her again. He needed to focus, he need to be calm, he needed his claws to go back in, he needed to be calm, he needed something...somethingsomethingsomeoneanythingpleaseplease…

He needed the car to stop.

That seemed to be enough for Stiles, who then gave Lydia a curt nod despite the fact she didn’t even bother looking at him. They stopped in an auto repair shop closer to the end of Chrisman Road instead of making a stop in the actual city of Tracy.

The werewolf sighed and looked around; he wished he had seen the preserve once more. He missed its trees. Down here, on the outskirts of Tracy's, the scenery didn't feel like home but still, it was still a blessing to get out of the car. He missed the trees, he missed it all. Peter took a deep breath and even the awful smell of a gas station was soothing. He wondered if he was the only one feeling the uneasiness.

They all knew it was a ridiculous idea. This new-found uncomfortableness in small spaces was too much of a nuisance. There were better ways to run away; better options, easier options.

Stiles got out the car and slammed the door behind him. Lydia clicked her tongue in annoyance and got out of the car, too, leaving the door wide open. Stiles stretched, one hand reaching out to the sky, the other supported his elbow. He looked tired and his tiredness looked unnatural on him. Peter could hear his bones clicking in place. He missed the preserve; he missed home.

"Are we actually planning a road trip to the end of Earth, while saying it will be a fun trip to the beach?" Stiles asked mid-yawn, scratching his head. Lydia walked towards as station store.

They all knew it was absurd.

Peter could see the reasoning behind Stiles' irritation. It wasn't enough to stop him from wanting to reach out to something. His pack was gone and these two…

These barely adults who had live way more than their ages should allow were the only thing he had to cling on to right now. A lone wolf doesn't make it on his own and a born wolf messed up enough to no longer be able to control his shift had no chance of surviving. He would be hunted down and killed off like an animal. And for all the Hales were famous, for all they had contacts, no one would take Peter in. There were rumors; it wasn't something they would keep quiet about. They didn’t know, they didn’t understand, yet they talked and talked and too much had happened. Awful rumors, stories about a psychotic alpha, power-hungry ex-alpha with no conscience killing his own family delusionalrevengeobsessedteenagerkiller...

Lunatic.

Peter was on his own and if this was all he still had, he would take it. He would seek out Cora. It was almost foolish and the idea of meeting Cora felt like too much optimism. Peter couldn't allow himself to hope she would be okay. Safe. Forgiving.

He would bow down to Lydia. He would give Stiles room to be wary.

"Why? Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?" Peter smirked at him, with all the fake confidence he could push himself with. The werewolf didn’t move to get out of the car, not yet. He needed to not feel trapped inside of it. He needed to stop feeling so trapped inside of it. "Perhaps you have a few appointments to keep?"

Lydia came back to the car and fixed her gaze on Peter in a silent demand for him to get out of the car. Peter counted the seconds and Lydia arched an eyebrow at him, and at the same time, Stiles started speaking again.

“Yeah, because watching the claustrophobic act you were pulling just now is _that_ much fun,” he snapped.

It felt like he spat the words at the werewolf, wrinkling his nose with the violence of his tone and as if Stiles were to bare his teeth at him. Peter noticed but didn’t comment. Lydia leaned in over the passenger’s seat to find the box they retrieved from the storage room in Sacramento.

“It’s not like there is a beach there,” Stiles continued sarcastically. He waved his hand towards nothing in particular, as if the coast was just a couple feet away.

Lydia rolled her eyes and sat on the passenger’s seat with her legs dangling outside the car, and it forced Peter to get out through the same side Stiles did. Relief washed over him as he stood outside and Peter couldn’t help but be bothered by how little control he had over himself these days.

“Cleithrophobic,” she corrected and both of them turned to face her.

It’d be a long time until they stopped after they left Sacramento, but he didn’t want to admit it. It’d been too long. None of them wanted to revisit their personal hells so they could see what scars were left, what new traumas they had to live with. Peter took a deep breath; the air smelt like gas.

“What?” Stiles blurted out and Lydia looked up from the documents she was inspecting, staring at Peter for a couple seconds as if he had been the one to speak, as if he had said his thoughts out loud. It last for two seconds but Peter felt as if Lydia could see through him and it made him feel uneasy until her eyes finally moved to focus on Stiles.

“The fear of being trapped or locked in an enclosed space,” the banshee clarified. “Cleithrophobia.”

Peter stretched, reaching down to touch his feet. He didn’t want to talk about it. Acknowledging that uneasiness - that actual soul chilling fear - required what would now be an uncomfortable level of introspection.

"Old man," Stiles smirked. Peter didn't mind; the distraction was welcomed.

Stiles leaned against the car, following Lydia with his eyes as she returned to the gas station store. "We don’t have to go all the way down South America just for a beach. But you both know that," he paused before tapping his foot to the rhythm of a song only he could hear. “'Ooh, she’s a little a runaway.'”

Peter shrugged. Lydia had spent all the time from Sacramento to Tracy on her new phone, frustrating herself as she looked after news from Beacon Hills. She was clearly avoiding them now, avoiding this conversation.

"Weren't you planning on running anyway?" Peter asked, leaning against the car, too.

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“Why don’t you for a walk? Bond with nature, go be werewolfy,” he said bitterly, waving both hands in an attempt to shoo Peter away from him.

Truthfully, Peter wanted to run. He wanted to run as far and as fast as he could. He was allowed to. Eichen house was in the past. He took another deep breath. He wondered if it would be odd to take of his shoes and keep walking away. The sun felt too hot after spending such a long period indoors, and it felt too close to burning. The werewolf looked up. It was still too bright but no longer blinding. Eichen House was no more and he was free.

Peter couldn’t help the smile creeping up his face. He couldn’t help the sudden wetness on his eyes. He walked away from the car; Stiles and Lydia could sort it out.

Eichen House burned down.

He was free.

Such a dull scenario felt fitting and still oddly disappointing. A plain dry field. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the almost non-existent breeze. He took another deep breath, picturing the vineyards north from there, trying to recognize the scents. His senses were back; his control was slowly returning. It was temporary; he would heal. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming.

He was alone.

Peter walked away but he felt like running.

This wasn't the preserve. The closest thing to the woods was a couple of sad, lonely trees across the road. This wasn’t pack territory. It was depressing and still, felt like a blessing. There was not a cloud in the sky; it was a bright day. This wasn’t home.

Peter ran. Stiles called his name.

Peter considered running off and finding an alpha, killing for power and making his own pack. He considered looking for other werewolves, going back and claiming Beacon Hills with his new pack. He considered going home and making it feel safe again. Peter felt tired.

He stopped and turned around, looking back at Stiles who didn’t follow him, who didn’t reach out to didn’t stop him, who didn’t ask him to stay.

Desperate people went a long way, he would know. Loneliness was a poison. Peter felt old. 

He didn't want a house with a yard and cute white picket fence. He didn't want three kids and a long life partner to decorate the place with him. Peter didn't need that sort of life things. He needed safety. He needed pack. He needed someone who understood, someone who witnessed it, someone to pull him back from the arms of vengeful desperation and tell him there was no point, remind him they were gone and they would never return. Someone to remind him that fighting to death in their names would not bring anyone back. It would not make them speak to him in dreams and tell him they forgave him for surviving.

Peter needed someone to call him back from madness. To keep him from getting lost.

So what if it wasn’t love? It was enough.

Peter help Stiles gaze for a moment longer before walking away.

It was late afternoon but the sun still felt too hot. Peter walked away from the car, away from the smell of gasoline and diesel, away from company. He walked away just because he could. Stiles didn't call out to him again, and didn't ask where he was going or if he would come back.

There was nowhere to go.

There was nowhere to return to.

There was no one else.

Let Peter mourn alone if he wanted to get mystical and go for a walk into the boring dry plain to pretend it was soul-searching experience in the desert and wait for the night to cry his loss away. Oh well, so Peter wanted the spiritual Band-Aid; let him have it. Stiles shrugged, watching the werewolf disappear in the distance a moment longer, before busying himself with getting the tank full again. He had expected the drama; it was Peter. He’d be back all cried out and so what. He'd come back. He had to.

Lydia came back and carefully place a bag full of water bottles and chips on the back seat. She didn’t get back into the car so when Stiles got back in to drive to the parking space, Lydia followed on foot. They were all struggling. He snorted a bitter laugh. Someone would end up dead because they got fucked up and fucked over – repeatedly! - and when they all died, Stiles would walk away from it again. He laughed. Another piece of him was gone. Another dead bit. Stiles leaned on the seat, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. Wasn’t he entitled to some madness too? Wasn’t his turn to act crazy and laugh because he lost everything and the only thing left to lose as himself again and it was terrifying?

For all it looked like he was attempting take a nap, the tension of his body betrayed his intentions. It was clear to him sleep wouldn't come any time soon. Stiles wondered if it scared Lydia; if it was too much of a reminder of his possession. He reached out and opened the passenger’s door. Lydia didn’t get in; he didn’t expect her too. The air outside was hot, heavy, it pressured him down and he could suffocate on his own, thank you very much. He didn’t need the weather to help him. Stiles sighed. This was all such a ridiculous situation.

They were gone. They were gone and he had to move on. They all did. It was getting late, it would be better to drive in the morning and find a place to spend the night but Peter was off somewhere and there was a sense of compromise keeping them waiting. Of course Peter needed to go for a fucking walk like the creature of the woods he was and now they were stuck waiting for him. It was the right thing to do and yet it felt so ridiculously wrong.

They could hear a sad lonely howl in the distance. Silence followed it.

Peter was grieving.

He could feel the terror deep on his bones, the fear of being left behind, the agony, the pain, the fearthefearfearfearfar. Peter took a deep breath. Moving on was harder and harder each time. He was used to loss. He was used to grief. There was nothing new to this feeling. This was overdramatic, he was being overdramatic. This was too much. He had done it. He had grieved. It was over, there was no way back.

He wondered why he felt drawn to Beacon Hills in such a strong way. He would have liked the woods for the next full moon. He wondered if they had the means to contain him, if he would lose control now the wolfsbane keeping him from shifting was gone, now the magical barriers were gone, now the moon felt close again.

It felt close already; the moon. What day was it? Was this pull to a pack he had lost so strong because he hadn't fully felt the moon in so long? Was the full moon upon them how long had he stayed in Eichen how much life he had missed? All the movies he didn't watch, the books he didn't read, the songs he didn't listen to. He had woken up from a coma and tried to catch up to a life he didn't have anymore. What was the point of following the news, updating himself? None of this mattered. None of this matters. He had been gone and the world didn't feel the difference. It didn't stop, it didn't wait, he didn't matter. Waking up from a coma to a lifetime of obligations and pain that patiently waited for him, waking up with pain piling up more and more until the weight of it could drive him mad. What to do with the house, who inherited what, who cared, who visited, checking information, discharging the miraculous weird patient and welcoming him back to a life of being dead for six years despite still being alive.

And now it happened again.

He was outdated, lost. This isn't the same world that locked him away. How many years had he lost this time? How old was he? Count the years you were alive and awake? Count the missing years? How many birthdays had he had? Peter didn’t know this world; he was out of place in it.

His breath caught on his throat.

Fuck.

Had Derek known what was done to him? It was unlikely. For all they hadn't seen eye to eye in quite some time, Derek wasn't cruel. Derek wasn't cut to be an alpha, he felt too much; it would've destroyed him eventually. Just like it did to Laura. Laura who ran. Laura who was too scared. Laura who left Peter behind, Laura who didn't understand, Laura who wanted to run and hide because her mama left her with a big mess that would end up in death and pain and she wasn't ready! Laura who Peter killed and he could barely remember doing so, out of his mind, in pain, grieving, omega. Laura who would haunt him forever in the cold steel color of his eyes. Peter failed Derek by making him become alpha. He fixed it, and he had known Derek would give it up to save Cora and so he had planned and he had seen the relief in Derek for no longer having that burden but it had been too late and pain added to pain and Derek wasn't cruel. Derek wouldn't lock him up to be tortured for…how long was it again? Too long. Too long. Too long! Peter needed to find the road again, find the car, find Lydia and Stiles and some semblance of normalcy.

Some semblance of pack.

Lydia got in the car and closed the door, staring at something Stiles couldn’t see. It took a second and the daze was gone.

“He’s ready now,” she declared, and Stiles didn’t ask how she knew. It wasn’t the time to ask and he wasn’t sure it would ever be.

“Stiles,” Lydia called him calmly. “This thing,” she said the word as if it personally offended her. She didn’t want to name their pain; she didn’t want to define their promises. Lydia wasn’t ready to for this conversation and she would demand control from the universe itself if she had to. She refused to be lost. She would fight and she could fight, but, right now, she didn’t want to. The banshee only wanted to get away, to go so far no one could ever find her again, so she could take the time to heal. “It will take time.”

Stiles nodded and drove them south, slowly, looking for Peter. The sun was setting now. They failed Lydia and it was understandable, it was excusable but was it forgivable? They failed her and Stiles knew Eichen from when Valack wasn’t in charge. He had seen the pictures Deaton showed them, urging them to a plan that never took place. They failed her and some died but sometimes surviving was a much worse fate and here they were.

Cursed.

Alive.

Had they somehow failed Peter too? Stiles hoped they wouldn't need to go looking for Peter to drag his werewolf ass back into the car.

They found the werewolf soon enough and Stiles honked. Lydia ached a judgmental eyebrow at him and Peter stared at the car, not really looking at them. Stiles honked again, daring him to do something. It rang loud on Peter’s ears and he glared before he got into the back seat and, for now, he didn’t feel trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song stiles quotes at peter is runaway by bon jovi
> 
> the title of this fic comes from the song wetsuit by the vaccines
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	2. ii

It made sense for them to stop in Lost Hills but it still made Stiles snigger at the sign. Lost hills for lost people; a more fitting place. Lydia rolled her eyes in silent judgement.

“Driver switch?’ she suggested and it took Stiles a moment of consideration to agree. He’d rather Lydia didn’t drive them to a random corpse pile, specially not when she had been staring off into the distance for the last hour or so. This trip was already ridiculous enough without any bansheeness of that type. Lydia fixed her eyes on him and Stiles shifted uncomfortably on his seat; it felt like she could hear his thoughts and Stiles didn’t like the feeling. Intrusive much?

“There is a rest stop around the town,” she continued.

“Regroup and re-plan,” he nodded and accepted the directions. It had been almost three hours this time and Peter seemed to be asleep. Stiles snorted a laugh; yeah right. He kept tapping the rhythm of ‘Runaway’ to the car wheel without paying the action any attention. It seemed Lost Hills had a whole area oh what could only be considered a rest stop. It made sense, they were right by the Five. Stiles parked at Chevron Gas Station; it was still a road trip even if it was a ridiculous one. Lydia was staring off into the distance again, it was as if she wasn’t seeing the physical place they were in.

Fun trip for the whole family.

Stiles watched Peter through the rear mirror. He had been behaving but it was Peter. Peter after being sent to Eichen House. They had never made plans to save Peter. Stiles narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Stiles knew the place before Valack took over. Would Peter make for an interesting subject? For all he knew the werewolf could be a puppet. It could be someone else wearing his face; it could be someone else controlling his body; it could be a spy; it could be Beacon Hills following them. Peter was behaving so well. So oddly. Stiles needed proof; he needed a reason to give Peter the same benefit of doubt Lydia seemed willing to give him.

Stiles glanced at Lydia again; it was like a trance with her. He snorted a laugh. As if he would just tell her to go on and take the wheel; to say ‘Lydia I love you but that’s not happening’ was more like it. He leaned over the driver’s seat, watching the sleeping man. It was uncomfortable for all of them to try and sleep during in the car but it wasn’t his idea to take a road trip to another country and he doubted Peter was truly asleep. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Sure, let’s run straight to the jungle and expect the monsters there to be kinder. And maybe we should let the banshee drive so we avoid all the supernatural murdering monsters while we get to that. Fun vacation; bring your kids!

His eyes focused on Peter’s crossed arms, an attempt to get comfortable in the crowded space. Protective. He noticed the claws prickling at the fabric of the other man’s shirt. Peter was still healing. Peter was still regaining control and trying to hide it. Stiles glanced from the healing scars on his arms that would soon fade away to Peter’s sleeping face. Before everything went up in flames, he had learned enough to be suspicious, to wonder and demand answers. Had Peter been experimented on? Why should he trust the werewolf in front of him? Stiles narrowed his eyes once again. He reached out to try and flick some of the hair above Peter’s ear out of the way. If they drilled a hole in his head, there would still be a scar. His healing was off; the marks would be there if there were marks to find. Stiles cocked his head, searching with his eyes. He glanced at Peter’s face again. His breathing was even.          

Stiles glanced at Lydia yet again; she had tilted her head slightly to the right. He wondered what she was seeing. Or hearing. He looked back at Peter and wrinkled his nose in frustration. Stiles leaned further over the seat so he could take a better look, so he could try to find marks. Proof. Peter’s hand closed around his wrist as he reached out again.

“Isn’t it incredibly stupid to try to sneak up on a werewolf?” Peter asked calmly, watching Stiles. He tsked. “I thought you were the smart one.”

Stiles didn’t offer him any explanation nor did he ask what he wanted to know. He held Peter’s gaze in challenge and Peter let the tips of his claws press a little harder against Stiles’ skin. It’d been a long time since he last held onto Stiles’ wrist. It’d be a long time since he offered him the bite.

And he knew that was still their dirty little secret,

"We will find a Motel and then we will plan," Lydia suddenly informed both of them. She refused to intervene.

Peter flashed his eyes at Stiles but where most people would have stepped back from the threat, Stiles only cocked his head and fixed him with a more calculating gaze. He didn’t speak but it was loud and clear to Peter he was the prey. He let go of Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles moved back to the driver’s seat and stood very still for a moment before getting out of the car and slamming the door. Stiles didn't mind the company, he didn't mind the bickering and truth be told, he didn't mind the trip itself. He just wanted to be as far of Beacon Hills as he could get...but he didn't want to admit it to them. His father was gone. It wasn't okay, Stiles didn't get him anymore. Stiles lost them all but he found Lydia. And Peter. It was a buy one, take two sort of deal; a true bargain. He hit the door with the side of first and ignored the attention he got from the people at the gas station.

Lydia reached out for the keys and held them out to Stiles.

“Be useful, fill the tank up.”

He rolled his eyes but obeyed.

“You’ll have to tell us what was done to you,” Lydia told Peter. She didn’t demand an immediate answer but Peter didn’t want to give her one at all. “What happened to you.”

“Well,” he started, watching his claws and willing them to go away. Peter could pretend; he was good at it. “It seems a psycho burned my pack alive around ten years ago.”

Last time he counted it was seven years and ten days. He couldn’t tell how much more time he should add now. How could he ask without accusing? How could he risk accusing them of anything when he needed them to stay? Peter knew it was selfish to ask them to stay but he had always been a selfish person. Loneliness would slowly kill him. They deserved better but Peter wasn't a good enough person to set them free. Consequently, he wasn’t careless enough to risk an accusation.

Lydia glared at him through the rear window mirror for a couple seconds before moving to the driver’s seat.    

Staying in Tracy had been a reminder of a failure. They couldn't save anyone. They were powerless. They were no longer only finding the bodies but their clumsiness, their weakness, their inability to help made it feel like they were helping put the bodies there. Lydia had wanted to save Tracy, she had wanted to help, to prove herself better. Better than Peter... but was Peter still able to be saved? What was she doing here? In the end, she didn't save Tracy and she didn't save Meredith and even if she didn't hold the knife, even if she didn't have the claws and fangs and masks and strength...She didn't snap their necks but what good did that do? They died anyway. Stiles came in and slammed the passenger's door.

Lydia breathed out slowly. She needed to ground herself. She couldn’t let herself get lost. Meredith had wanted to help and it got her lost. Lydia needed direction. Focus.

“We need too many legal documents,” she began as soon as she had the keys to drive them from the gas station. “If we are doing this properly. I think that’s unlikely.”

Peter wished they would discuss the details later. He was good at pretending. He closed his eyes. He told himself to calm down.

“It’d be better to not be close to the border during the full moon,” she continued.

“We could stop by Walmart and get Cujo a new leash,” Stiles mocked.

Peter focused on his breathing.

“Is it tonight?” he asked. It was a shame he couldn’t tell for himself. It’s been so long since his last full moon outside Eichen House. He was scared. Not of the moon itself but of his lack of control, of never regaining what was lost. He could still feel the pain of constant wolfsbane poison.

“Tomorrow,” Lydia answered and parked the car in front of Days Inn Lost Hills. Stiles leaned forward to give the building a look and shrugged.

“Are we supposed to stay here until is over?” he asked and got out of the car, slamming the door again. Peter wondered if this was Stiles way of mourning; he, too, had been angry at the unfairness of losing his loved ones. The werewolf wondered if that anger would come again, if he would lose himself into it. He opened his eyes and pretended they weren’t full of tears. He focused on calming down.

“I’m not some teenager who just got the bite,” Peter said bitterly, scoffing at the thought. He was worried but he didn’t say so as he reached out for the door to get out too. “I do have control. The wolfsbane should be completely gone by the time the moon is up.”

Peter sighed and looked up; it was odd to get used to the sight of the sky again. It was odd to have to. He wasn’t ready to talk things out. He couldn’t phantom the idea of spilling is soul to these two people who may as well kill him on his sleep. He wasn’t ready for the full moon. It’d be smart to not be in Calaveras’ territory just in case.

But…there was a reason they didn’t bother getting mountain ash. There as a reason they didn’t need wolfsbane.

“And I do believe all of us know plenty of ways to get past the border without all the legalities being bought into it,” he smirked as if he wasn’t continuing a conversation they had already dropped. That had been the last time he had been free. When they went down to Mexico.

Peter didn’t expect the spineless pack to judge him and decide on a life-long torture sentence. Peter had fantasized of getting out and getting retribution from the moment he woke up and realized his whole body was trying to heal itself. Realized that there was pain cursing through his veins.

Wolfsbane.

He may not have been the best teacher but it had seemed rather unfair to lock him up and leave him for dead. That was not the work of an alpha. That was not how an alpha should protect their pack. That was…that felt…Peter felt hunted. It was, at the very least, the work of a hunter.

"Stop that," Lydia hissed.

Peter watched the banshee move towards Stiles. He didn’t realize Stiles went off to get them keys. Peter couldn’t afford to lose them.

So he followed.

The Inn was an improvement from the motel they stayed in near Beacon Hills. The floral pattern on the quilts was almost offensive but he could understand the attempt to give people that little piece of outdated familiarity that would make them feel in some way closer to home. Stiles inspected the whole room before claiming one of the beds. Peter wondered if they would keep on taking turns to watch out while the others rested. It was the smart thing to do.

The werewolf stretched and sniffed the air. He could smell food which wasn’t surprising, with a Denny’s right across the street. He could look at it through the window. He could smell cheap soap and cleaning products. Old perfume. Gasoline. Peter wrinkled his nose. He felt like a young boy trying to figure out his senses, trying to learn to differentiate chemo signals and regular smells. It wasn’t common for a werewolf his age to be struggling with such things.

It wasn’t common to feel almost ten years younger than he actually was because he missed all those years. He lived less than is age and everything would forever be a reminder of the time he missed.

Peter sighed. For now, he would just keep on following them.

There was no point in wishing for the dead. He survived. It was enough. It had to be.

“If no one minds,” Peter waved a hand towards the bathroom. It was an offer but it didn’t sound like one; his politeness sounded like mockery.

Peter locked the door behind himself and turned the shower on. He paused, trying to listen to Lydia and Stiles but they were silent. The bathroom smelled clean. He tried to listen to their heartbeats instead. He needed his control back. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Alpha, Beta, Omega,” he kept repeating under his breath while undressing. His healing was so slow. His eyes got wet and he stared at the mirror for a moment. He made such a pathetic sight. Peter rubbed his face with his palms a couple times.

It was fine.

Talia was dead. His healing would come back; he wouldn’t have new scars. Peter got in the shower.

It was fine.

Laura was dead. He had no pack, no alpha. No home. He could feel his chest tighten and his breathing quicken.

It was fine it was fine it wasfineitwasfine.

Derek was dead. He had died and Peter hadn’t been there. Was...was Derek alone? Was he an omega when he died?

It was fine. Peter survived. He survived and it wasn’t wrong. It was fine. It was fine and he was sorry and he needed to let go.

Peter took a deep breath; he felt like drowning. He tried it again and again until he could control it. Until the panic was manageable. He touched his face; he didn’t realize how much he had shifted. It was fine. He was working on it.

Peter washed his face, mindful of his claws. It was fine. He ignored the tears, he ignored the fading scars. It would heal. He would heal.

It was a work in progress.

Peter allowed himself to cry. He didn’t need to; he didn’t want to. He was done mourning. He had been done mourning before he woke up from the coma and now it was crushing down on him again and it was such a heavy burden to carry. He couldn’t think of becoming an alpha again, not right now. Not when desperation was guiding him.

It felt like he had lost a piece of himself in so many lost years and now a bigger piece of his soul had died along with the remaining family, remaining pack, he had.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to get out of the shower and out of the bathroom but he was surprised to find a pile of clothes at the door. He took them, glanced into the room and disappeared back into the bathroom to dress up. Peter did his best to compose himself and stepped out again. Telling how much time passed was a difficult thing now.

Lydia was sitting in one of the beds with her back to the other bed, where Stiles was lying down in a ridiculous position. The werewolf frowned slightly, letting his eyes take in the sight of Stiles sprawled on the bed as if he wanted to be uncomfortable. He listened for a moment, forcing himself to focus only on listening to the signs of sleep; his heartbeat was calm, his breathing was even.

The room was quiet. It smelt like greasy food now. Peter looked around and found the bag with food that was probably the source of the smell.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be a fast food person,” Peter hummed, inspecting the bag.

Lydia gave him a look that was only disdain. “I could be.”

Peter wouldn’t remind her of the time he spent in her head. Denial was a game they could play together. He traced the wrapping, trying to identify the food by scent alone. Truth be told, he didn’t mind this sort of food.

Peter closed his eyes.

“Eventually,” Lydia begun. “We will all have to talk.”

“Eventually,” Peter sneered.

Peter picked one of the wrappings and just held it for a moment. Someone had closed the curtains but he could tell it wasn’t night yet. He moved to sit on the bed with Lydia but hesitated for a moment until she nodded. He would follow them because he didn’t want to be alone.

It felt like a piece of him was missing. A new one. A new pain. He stared at the food. Peter considered buying himself a watch next time he got the opportunity to do so.

“I would like,” he started and paused, unsure. Lydia tilted her head so she could watch him through the corner of her eyes. Peter closed his eyes. “I would like to offer Derek revenge. For his death,” Peter knew how it sounded. He didn’t want to go back to Beacon Hills and draw spirals and hunt down the responsible ones. He was scared. He needed a way to say good bye. “I know it won’t change…”

Anything.

It wouldn’t bring Derek back. It wouldn’t ease his guilt. It wouldn’t make him whole again. Peter had learned, when he killed Kate, revenge wasn’t enough. It would never be. It would never fix anything; it would never make sense of it; it would never change the fact they died and Peter didn’t.

Lydia traced the fading scar on the back of his right hand with her fingertip. It was barely a touch and yet it startled the werewolf. It didn’t hurt. He followed her finger with his eyes. It was such a gentle gesture. It was terrifying.

“You don’t need to be in Beacon Hills to say goodbye,” she declared after a long time. Lydia sounded distant.

Peter knew. Objectively, he knew.

Lydia covered his hand with her own and Peter couldn’t tell if it was pity, comfort or something else. It was oddly nice.

He would follow them because he didn’t want to let go of anything else anymore.

“I’ll keep watch,” Peter offered and took his hand away. He busied himself with the food so he wouldn’t need a better reason. He glanced over his shoulder to Stiles. Sleep looked unnatural to him.

It took a moment before Lydia gave him a nod.

“Well,” she said in a demanding tone. She arched an eyebrow at him and Peter felt his intelligence being insulted by her expression alone. “You’re sitting in my bed.”

Peter made a point of rolling his eyes before moving to the chair. It would be uncomfortable but it would keep him awake. It was good, he’d have time to make sure he progressed with his control. He focused on Lydia’s heartbeat. She had anchored him once; she could be his anchor again. Although, he couldn’t listen to her heartbeat alone; Stiles’ was there too. He finished eating in silence, comforted by their presence.

The werewolf had barely finished eating when Lydia held the hideous floral blanket up with no warning and no invitation voiced out loud. He hesitated again. Lydia sighed in annoyance.

“Do you really want to spend the whole night in that chair,” she asked but it sounded more like passing judgement on his actions than actually expecting an answer. It was clear she thought that was a stupid choice. Peter snorted a laugh.

“And here I thought I was supposed to keep watch.”

“Are you assuming you’ll be asleep sometime soon?” she paused and then hummed. “Or distracted?”

Peter remember the only time they shared a bed; he terrorized her and, regrettable as it was, it as a necessary evil at the time. He wondered if this was Lydia conquering her fears, insisting she didn’t mind it anymore. She was being very clear about not fearing him. Lydia was telling him whatever he had done to her didn’t break her. He got up, stretched again and moved to the bed.

It was awkward.

They very clearly avoided contact; they were both awake and tense. Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking for courage.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, speaking so softly he knew it would take a supernatural being to hear it. It took a huge effort to say it. It was a confession. It was a secret. It was a statement of fact.

It had been years of being scared now but it was the first time he had said it out loud. It felt…real.

Peter couldn’t bring himself to elaborate. He was scared of becoming an alpha again and going crazy with power. He was scared of becoming an alpha and being alone, he was scared of his new pack leaving him. He was scared of being hunted down and he was scared of being killed.

He let out his breath slowly. It was fine. He was safe.

Lydia wrapped a hand around his forearm. He felt weak. He would be killed if he went after an alpha.

“Peter,” she called in the same censoring way she did to Stiles when he was being obnoxious. He watched Lydia in the dark. Sex would be a great distraction. He considered the idea; he considered suggesting it. Peter closed his eyes; it had always been a good way to switch his mind off things.

Well, he could probably say it ran in the family.

Without a word and in a fluid and careful move, Lydia got her leg over him and the impulse of that movement alone was enough for her to push herself on top of him. Peter blinked in surprise; he searched for her eyes in the dark. Lydia put both her hands on his chest but it was barely a touch and she let them hover as if there was something between her hands and Peter’s body. Sex would be a great distraction. Peter watched Lydia’s face carefully. Why was the possibility of it making him wary?

Lydia leaned down as if she was about to kiss him. Something was wrong. Peter sucked in a nervous breath. Lydia’s hair made a curtain around his face. Was he scared of her touch? How pathetic of him.

How weak.

Lydia brushed her lips against Peter’s and before he could truly react she was gone again, lying down by his side. Peter stared at the ceiling, confused. What was Lydia doing? What was she thinking? He watched her through the corner of his eyes. Had it been real at all?

“It’s okay,” Lydia reassured him and she found his hand under the covers.

Peter wasn’t sure if he was awake.

“It’s not,” Peter frowned, squeezing her hand back. It felt wrong but he needed to be sure she was there.

“But it will be,” he remembered hearing her saying as he closed his eyes. The werewolf didn’t quite realize how tired he was but when he woke up again, he could hear chirping outside. Sleep had come as a surprise.

It was the morning again and he didn’t even remember falling asleep. He didn’t expect to sleep so much. How had he even fallen asleep so fast? Who kept watch? Lydia was gone.

Lydia.

Confusion took over him but still he focused on not letting the anxiety rise.

Stiles watched him from the other bed while he ate, eyes locked on Peter’s. Lydia was nowhere in sight but he could hear the shower.

“Morning,” Stiles said with a mouthful of food.

“What time is it?” the werewolf grunted. The smell of fried mozzarella sticks annoyed him before he even registered that’s what they were.

“Middle of the afternoon, give or take,” Stiles shrugged and Peter tried to not let the shock of having slept so much show on his face. “We were about to wake you up. Lydia insisted,” He stuffed his mouth with more food, chewing in silence for a few seconds before continuing. “I told her we should take it as divine intervention and run, but not even the physical appearance of the please would reach her cold cold heart.”

“Charming,” Peter rolled his eyes and resisted a yawn.

“Why you don’t want a pack?” Stiles asked after a beat; all suspicions.

Peter felt tempted to growl at him. He blinked the sleep away and stretched in bed. It was comfortable enough. Better than the car. Better than Eichen.

“I do need one.”

“It doesn’t have to include Cora,” Stiles pointed out and it hurt.

Peter had only cared for his family and if Cora was the only one left… Stiles should understand it! They were alike in so many ways. He narrowed his eyes at the other man. Lydia came out of the bathroom, drying her hair with the towel. It would be the perfect excuse to let go but Peter didn’t take it.

“Of course not,” Peter replied and gave Stiles a look that called him an idiot.

“Your werewolfiness is showing,” Stiles snorted a laugh and made a ridiculous movement to indicate is own eyes, waving his hand quickly. It was…amusing? Peter took a moment to consider the unexpected fondness he felt as he watched Stiles wave his hand in such a way he could easily hit his own face with it. He tried to blink away his supernatural eyes and it seemed like it worked as Stiles didn’t say another word about it.

“We should go,” Lydia stated and they might as well. Even if they didn’t cross the border tonight, getting closer to it would be better.

Lydia claimed the driver’s seat and this time Peter offered to go settle their expenses. He needed to prove to them he wouldn’t run and hide of every simple thing. He was a mess but it was progress.

It didn’t take long but, before making his way back, Peter took a moment to watch Stiles and Lydia talking inside the car. Slow progress was still progress. He closed his eyes, focused on their heartbeats.

Peter was a selfish man. He needed them. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing anyone else. He felt as if his existence at the moment was dependent on Stiles and Lydia staying by his side.

He let his breath out slowly and finally made his way to the car.

Small progress was still progress. He would never be complete; a finished work. Peter smiled and got in the car. That was the beauty of it; as long as he was alive, he wouldn’t be more than a work in progress.

Lydia and Stiles had their fingers entwined and he as caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. Peter was a selfish man and he didn’t want to give up on any of them. Right now, he couldn’t afford to and would intrude in their little world if it was needed. He reached out to turn on the radio. Stiles fixed him a calculating look. Peter flashed him a grin, glanced at their hands and arched an eyebrow. He didn’t need undivided attention as long as they wouldn’t leave him behind.

The radio filled the silence as they got back to the highway.

Lydia needed to ground herself. There was a terrible feeling bubbling in her chest and she wasn’t sure what it was. Not yet. It was a ridiculous idea to run into a territory so clearly claimed by hunters but… She needed to focus. The music wasn’t helping.

Peter hummed along with a song on the radio. He could feel the pull of the moon getting stronger; his mind insisted he should run back home. Back to Beacon Hills. Back to his Pack. He placed is hands on his own thighs.

Lydia held tightly on the wheel. She needed to trust her instincts. Could she see their deaths?

Stiles complained about Peter singing and the werewolf scoffed at him.

Something was wrong.

Peter felt like a scared child, running to Cora and hoping it would make a difference. Running away like Laura did. Peter didn’t look back. He trusted and didn’t he know by now what trust could do to people? Didn’t he lose enough? How foolish. What was he doing running like this?

Lydia’s shoulder tensed up. She should know better by now; she needed to focus. Her eyes didn’t leave the road in front of them and her hands didn’t let go of the wheel. They would drive down the Five and into San Diego. It wasn’t far away now. Lydia felt trapped.

She could feel it. Something was wrong. Someone would die.

Peter’s breath sounded like a rehearsal. Like he was learning how to breathe again. Stiles kept tapping his fingers against the door along with the rhythm of the song. Everything was loud. Peter was growing annoyed. He could smell the anxiety and it was only making everything worse.

Lydia hit the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the highway. It was so sudden Peter had his claws out, digging into the seat, and Stiles looked startled.

Lydia screamed.

Both of them covered their ears. It was painful. Peter closed his eyes tightly. The windows shattered and pieces of glass fell inside the car, although, most of it didn’t.

“Lydia,” Stiles voice cut through the ominous silence that followed.

“They all died and we’re all gonna die too,” She sounded on the verge of panicking. She sounded like desperation made into human form.

Peter roared at her, baring his still human teeth. He had survived! He would not die here!

Stiles let go of Lydia in a flash of movement, and for a moment Peter thought he would find himself outside the car with a push from him. He wanted to tear into his flash and tear him to pieces. Peter would show them he wasn’t weak. He bared his teeth at Stiles.

Lydia screamed again but it was different this time. It wasn’t a warning. She moved her hands, pushing the air in front of her with them. It forced both men against the opposite doors and, for a moment, both Stiles and Peter stared at her before she opened the door and threw herself outside the car.

Peter was scared. He needed a pack, he needed safety. He was weak. He was going to die here.

Peter ran. And, after a moment of hesitation, Stiles ran after him.

This was wrong; he was the predator and here he was, acting like prey. How could Stiles inspire such a reaction? Stiles. Frail. Weak. Human. Peter could feel his control slipping further and further away. He wanted to turn around and make them submit.

“Peter!”

The desire to bite, to sink his teeth into Stiles flesh and dig his claws into his skin deep enough to break through muscle and find bone suddenly hit him again. The desire to tear him to pieces. Peter turned around and snapped his teeth at Stiles. His claws came out and his eyes glowed blue.

“You expect me to run?” Stiles smirked and the step he took towards Peter felt very threatening.

The werewolf could feel the changes in his appearance but still, he tried to hold back. He couldn’t lose them but he wasn’t weak! Stiles looked amused; he was hunting Peter. Where did he learn that annoying smile? Peter growled, baring his fangs as anger took over. He would grab, break, fear apart… He was breathing faster, panting. A low rumble became a threating growl again. Stiles looked so soft.

It came as a surprise Stiles would charge at him. Peter roared again, claws catching on Stiles arm. He smelt blood, and he snapped his fangs, catching nothing but air. And suddenly he was on his back and the air was forced out of his lungs by the fall. He growled at Stiles’ face, lashed out again and Stiles pushed him back down.

Stiles straddled Peter and held him down, staring at the werewolf with cold eyes and silent anger that Peter could tell wasn’t directed at him. Stiles forced his thighs against Peter’s, pinning his lower body in place. Was he too weak? Was Stiles too strong? Was it still the wolfsbane? Stiles held his arms down when Peter attempted to claw at him again.

“Peter!” he called again and Stiles leaned down, to get his face close enough to so he could hiss at Peter’s face. “I know you have better control than this.”

Stiles stared at Peter’s bright and cold blue eyes. He bared his human teeth right back at Peter and it was a surprise the werewolf just stayed there, lying under Stiles and letting his weight pin him down. Stiles narrowed his eyes, still suspicious, and, very slowly, let go of one of Peter’s hand. He waited, watching the werewolf as their lips almost brushed against each other. He would fuck Peter over if the bastard tried to kill him when he wasn’t even thinking straight. Fuck. They had to go back to Lydia; they had no time. His face was so close to Peter’s they could still feel each other’s erratic breathing even after he backed away a little.

Stiles put his hand on Peter’s chest, flat hand pressed over his heart. A low rumble came from the werewolf. Peter focused on Stiles’ heartbeat.

Peter tugged his other hand free and he took a second to wonder if Stiles was only able to hold him down because Peter himself was panicking so much. It was still odd. He hesitated for a moment before he wrapped both his arms around Stiles, pressing him down against his chest in an awkward hug. Stiles stood very still for a second and suddenly pushed himself up so he was sitting again, glaring down at Peter.

“I’ll find the thickest branch of mountain ash to stick so far up your ass you’ll never shift again if so much try something like this again,” he threatened Peter with narrowed eyes and a calm voice that held far too much anger. Peter could tell very little of it was directed at him. “You fuck fucker fuck!” Stiles seemed to deflated as he cursed, as if the words escaped him.

Peter reached out, his claws still out, and put his hand on the back of Stiles’ head, pulling him down enough so they could meet halfway in a kiss. It wasn’t romantic and it was desperate but it was a point of balance while the whole world was shifting. Peter felt like he was begging but Stiles kissed back.

“You selfish dick,” Stiles complained as soon as Peter let go. He got up this time and whenever he looked at Peter, his glare didn’t waver. He licked his lips. “Making us chasing you before you go crazy and kill four or five in the middle of the road. Lydia is alone back there.”

Peter nodded. It was selfish and it was _him_ but it felt right to go back now, knowing they wouldn’t let him go either. He looked up at the sky and back at Stiles; eyes still glowing. They should go back to Lydia.

Peter focused on shifting back. He could feel the pull of the moon but he could hear Stiles’ heartbeat still going too fast and Lydia’s…He felt a pang of guilt for running away but he wouldn’t let himself be killed. He survived. He looked back at Stiles with human eyes this time. He would make sure they survive, too.

Peter knew they deserved better. Peter knew he was lucky.

“It seems I owe Lydia an apology.”

Lydia was still by the car. Some cars would honk as they passed to make clear their annoyance, some would slow down to see if helped was needed. Or to look for the disaster. Peter growled under his breath, protective.

"Because this trip is perfectly reasonable," Stiles snorted a laugh despite glaring at a car that just honked, giving them the finger, and opened the door to the passanger’s seat, brushing the glass away from it. “We should make an effort to keep the standard level of normalcy of a fun family trip. Like we are clearly doing.”

“It’s not…it’s ridiculous,” Peter admitted, the corner of his lips twitching up. There was a lightness to him now. He didn’t have to fight to keep them here. He didn’t have a pack but someone would follow him and make sure he didn’t get lost inside his mind. Peter held a hand out for Lydia and after a moment she took it. “I want to go anyway. It’d be nice to see Cora.”

Lydia let her eyes inspect the car before pushing her hair away from her face. She gave Peter a weak smile and moved to help get the glass out of the seats.

“It would take a long time cross the border by car anyway,” Lydia said. Stiles reached out and took a piece of glass from her hair, brushing the lock of hair with his fingers. She hummed, eyes on the wound on Stiles’ arm. “San Ysidro port of entry is the busiest port of entry in the world.”

Peter fought back a smile. He could get attached; they wouldn’t walk out on him. They didn’t forgive and they didn’t forget and, still, here they were.

Peter knew they deserved better than him but he didn’t want to let go.

“Ditch the car and cross on foot?” Stiles suggested and Lydia seemed to take it in consideration. Peter wanted to laugh. They weren’t ready to talk but they were making an effort. “I’m not paying for a new car on the other side.”

Peter chuckled and got in the car. He felt a little less heavy. A little…freer.

“Don’t worry. I’ll cover the expenses.”

Stiles watched Peter carefully for a moment. “You better.”

“You can pay me back whenever,” the werewolf teased and leaned back on the backseat, trying to get comfortable. Stiles gave him the finger but Peter just closed his eyes and ignored Stiles’ glare. It was still a full moon night.

Peter pretended to sleep, Stiles played with the radio, and Lydia drove. The wind hitting their faces was an annoyance but no one said a word. No one said a word about anything and the silent itself felt sad but it was a comfortable sadness. Peter didn’t feel like he had to run from it anymore.

Stiles didn't cry. He refused to poke at his feelings and let the wound bleed free. Lydia didn't cry. She stared at the distance with unblinking eyes and far too many emotions to find her own so easily. Peter didn't cry. He could feel his eyes still getting wet without his permission sometimes but he had learned how to recover from it as soon as the tears threatened to come. It was a carefully planned moment of silence. They were lost and it wasn’t fine, not yet. But it would be.

Eventually.

 

 

_“Somehow, through a flip of the coin, I ended up here. Feeling like somebody at the top of the heart-lung transplant recipient list. Damaged but invigorated and fucking lucky.”  
― _ Augusten Burroughs, _Magical Thinking_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cujo is the name of a rabid dog in a book by stephen king. there is also a movie which i'd say is more likely stiles is referencing to.  
> he makes a reference to despicable me when he says the physical appearance of the please doesn't matter.
> 
> this part was betaed by the lovely aliimagic (thank you thank you thank you!) and i'm really grateful for it.  
> thank you koko for reviewing it with me and thanks time_lady_of_unsinkable_ships and ethereality for holding my hand through it. you're all super adorable.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading this part!!  
> i hope you'll follow the story into the next installment


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